Carteret's papers went in. They settled in London. Esmé looked for a house, fretting because she could not find one they could afford. Esmé often fretted as cold March was pushed away by April. She was restless, never quiet, unable to spend an hour at home by herself. Everything seemed to cost more than it had. People gave up the little kindnesses which she had counted. She was not paid for at theatres, nor sent flowers and fruit.
"The Carterets must have come into money," people said carelessly. "Esmé's simply gorgeously clothed, and they're looking for a house. Of course he's heir to old Hugh's place now."
More than once Bertie included Estelle Reynolds in their parties. She came, enjoying everything almost childishly; never tired of looking at the London streets with their roaring traffic. Hanging on every word at theatres, openly delighted with the dishes at smart restaurants.
"Everyone is so rich here," said Estelle in wonder. "They pay and pay and pay all round us."
They were lunching at Jules, and Esmé had carelessly ordered one or two things out of season. Estelle had watched the gold coins put on the folded bill.
"You would not be so extravagant, I imagine," Esmé laughed. She neither liked nor disliked the quiet girl, even found her useful now to do forgotten errands at the shops, to write her letters for her while Esmé lounged back smoking, to go off in the rain for a book which must be read immediately. For, wanting anything, Esmé could never wait. She snapped at her share of life, to fling it away barely tasted. Estelle came oftener and oftener to the flat. Settled flowers, put out sweets for dinner, had the bridge tables ready, and then went away. She was always useful, always willing to help.
"Extravagant!" Estelle answered. "No, I'd lunch at home."
"Off chops and fried potatoes," said Esmé, taking asparagus.
"If you go to the Club mankind invariably lunches off chops and steak," broke in Bertie. "Women are the lovers of fluffy dishes; they please 'em, I suppose, as new dresses do, because poor people can't have them."
"Estelle would lunch at home," laughed Esmé, "and go in a 'bus to see the shops in Regent Street, or perhaps to the National Gallery or the White City, and come home to make a new savoury which she had seen in Home Instructions, and do her accounts after dinner. Eh, little home bird?"